Crime and Punishment
by Cansei de Ser Sexy
Summary: "Then you realize there is a price for everything, and you realize that he paid his, and now you're paying for yours...for your crimes, though you aren't sure what they are." Character study for Selina Kyle, and the aftermath after the hero of the story dies.


_A/N: I swear I have no blame in this, and it's all **CloudyDreams**' fault :p Hah, with her amazing second pov fic, she tempted me to write this. I wanted to write a character study in second pov, and thought Selina would suit my purposes just fine. Hence this._

_Seriously, it's very experimental for me so I have no idea how this thing is, or it's working or not, and alas it's not beta-read too, so if you think it's incomprehensible, and illegible, please, be sure to say it, so I can work on it._

_I consider to do the second part when Bruce comes back from 'death' though I'm not sure. First, I need to be sure this is working :)_

_Enjoy._

* * *

Clean Slate did what it was supposed to do, and gave you what you want, a normal life, and it took just three weeks, two days, and six hours to remember why you've always hated normal life. In the seventh hour, you broke into the first apartment you saw empty, and stood in the middle of the dark hall, and remembered once again why you chose to be what you are. You'd discovered it while gazing at the windows of the jewelry in your town, diamonds calling you seductively, and that night in your room you gazed at the golden medals from the gymmannistic tournaments adoring your wall, and realized that those weren't the gold you wanted.

Breaking into local jewelry was the easiest part but you didn't know about security that time. You learned later though.

Next Monday after the 'three weeks, two days, and seven hours' you started again, because you had to now, because you lost all your savings in a game of gamble, while drunk, and now you needed to work once again to keep yourself on your feet, because what else you suppose to do? Working in an office? You laughed at yourself for the absurdity of the question, and a part, a part deep inside, just snickered, 'Whatever makes you sleep at night, baby.'

You didn't like that part, but you've never did anyways. But then again it'd made you remember the question one of your old marks asked, "How can you sleep at night, bitch?"

And you'd laughed at him, because you couldn't sleep at nights, because your neighbors in your apartment were either fucking or fighting, and something doing the both above your head, and the walls of your flat were so thin you were listening to them all night instead of sleeping. Next day, with the money you'd make from him, you moved out to another flat, and then you slept like a baby.

"They have no chance at all," the man comments with his heavy accented English, distracting you momentarily from your musings, and you know he takes the expression on your face as an further interest in the topic, because he continues, "Real Madrid has no chance at all as long as we have Messi—"And he goes on, and on, and on about Ronaldo and Messi, and something you can't even pronounce properly but you've already tuned him out, only making suitable 'hmm' and 'ahh' when the pauses in his monologue require you to do. Your hand absently plays with the bottle of Mahou, and you wish it was Heineken. You also wish the man stopped talking.

But honestly, you can't blame him failing reading the lack of your interest, because having one sided conversations as if a proper dialogue is one of first tricks you learned. A very useful trick, and you've honed it pretty well over the years, starting ignoring _that conversations_ of your mother. You came only better with the company of countless marks; they all talked, talked, talked, and you always said 'hmm' and 'ahh', and everyone happy, and vaudeville continued.

Though, still, you can't. It was you who asked to come to your side after all, and in return you got yourself a drink—a terrible, a terrible drink—why, you have no idea. Perhaps, you just wanted...company.

And you've always hated company.

"They just love dreaming—"the man says with a loud laugh, and you follow easily, without thought, "Excuse me for a moment," and he brings his hand on his stomach, "I need to pee."

You just nod, and sigh as he leaves.

And you decide once again men are stupid. And that thought reminds you of _Him_, the stupidest of all of his kind, and your force your attention to the match on the TV, and ask to the barmen, "Can I have a Heineken, please?"

The barmen nods, pushes you the green bottle, and you take a sip gratefully, and feel the familiarity. "You need something harder," then you hear barmen says. You turn your head, and look at him, and he looks back at you, smiling. "When a girl like you wants a company of a man like him, it usually means the girl needs a hard drink," he explains, pouring a shot of whiskey. "You'd be surprised what one can learn behind a bar."

No, you wouldn't, but you don't feel like correcting him, instead, you say, simply, like it's the easiest thing, "I lost someone."

He nods with understanding, and you wonder how many times you were in the same situation like him, nodding like you understand even when you don't, "Someone close?"

"Sort of," you respond, then say the thing you've just thought, because it seems appropriate, somehow, "He was the stupidest man I've ever known."

"All good ones tend to be," he says, then you realize you didn't give this man enough credit for his—observation skills.

"Yeah, the stupidest of all," you agree again, and your voice thins, from...something you can't—decide, "An hero."

"Ah," the man says, then you barely hold yourself to seethe your teeth, and tell him that he saved a whole fucking city by sacrificing himself.

So instead you say, "I wish he wasn't that much noble," but then again being noble was him, it's what he was, who he was, so you amend, bringing your bottle up to your mouth to take a sip, because you feel your throat suddenly burning, "I wish he was a little bit _less_ noble."

The man nods then asks, "But would you still care if he was?"

Your hand stops in the middle, hung in the air, and wordless you shake your head. No, you wouldn't, because it wouldn't be him, but then again _he_ wouldn't mean anything, even when he's dead, he would be just someone from the news, a billionaire, a moneybag you hate, and you would watch the news not interested, sipping from a Heineken, the remote in your hand, and then you'd close the TV, and go to your bed, and sleep like a baby.

Now instead you spend the nights lying on the bed, gazing at the ceiling, and asking yourself the question you asked him. You haven't still had any satisfying answer for that question, but you know yourself; you know what you are, and you know exactly what you are not too. You are not a hero, not like him. Then in the dark one part of you tells you returned because you wanted, because you wanted to help, and another one just laughs, and tells you not to forget.

Then you remember the months you spent in Gotham, you remember the prison, you remember the bars, you remember the winter, the cold in the air, and the snow raining on your hair, and you remember the helplessness you felt on your tongue, you remember the desperation you felt in your bones, the trapped feeling you swore to God that you'd never ever feel again in the pit of your stomach. No, you don't easily forget, neither you easily forgive.

Bu he did. The forgiveness came easily to him, naturally, and you remember the smile he gave you when he told, "It wouldn't suit you."

And you know he was right. You don't regret, still, despite all the things, you still don't regret your choice, to betray him, because it was your choice and you learned long ago to take responsibility of your choices. But still, you feel sorry, sorry how it turned out, and suddenly you realize you'd like to say him that, just that, simply, like it'd change everything, "I'm sorry."

And perhaps, this time, he would have even believed you.

But you can't, you can't tell. Because he turned into ashes, because he disintegrated into his atoms, because there wasn't anything left from him, not a single thing, not even a shadow, the only thing left remained you now you, and this feeling you can't name, then you remember what that another part told you in the bed, as you gazed at the ceiling, 'There is no vehicle fast enough to save someone from fallout, radiation position, a horrible way to die...Is this the best way to die? Will we go without fighting?' And you remember yourself screaming at the voice, 'shut up.'

Then you realize there is a price for everything, and you realize that he paid his, and now you're paying for yours...for your crimes, though you aren't sure what they are.

And you realize you don't have anyone to answer that question, not in the way you want.


End file.
